Imaginary Friend
by barefoot friar
Summary: Stocke tells Rosch's daughter a story...


They named her Rosalind. She had Rosch's light eyes, Sonja's dark hair and, as some liked to jest, more sense than the two of them put together. Her parents adored her endlessly, her extended party of family friends doted upon her and all of Alistel considered themselves blessed by a princess of sorts, not noble in blood but possessing inner grace and seemingly vast quantities of quiet wisdom. There were times when Eruca would visit and she took a great shine to the girl, leading her around the city and instructing her in the roles of royalty. She took great pleasure in their play of teacher and pupil, showing the girl how to curtsey, how to wave properly, and more importantly the varied ways to care for the people in their distress. Rosa relished the thought of walking with such a dignified sway, or nodding her head in favor upon those she passed by.

There was so much for a little girl to learn. Raynie was intent on her learning the ways of war, yet her determination wilted under Sonja's concerned gaze. Marco took every Tuesday to instruct her on the making of healing equipment, something he had been dabbling in lately. Aht and Gafka, when stopping by, told her all the tales of the beastkind, filling her head with the knowledge necessary to strengthen peaceful bonds between the races.

However, there was one teacher she loved most.

He visited her in solitude always, taking great lengths to never be seen by her parents. She could close her eyes and recall his visits even from her infant years, albeit in brief flashes of youthful memory. It seemed then that all he would do was stand beside her cradle. Sometimes he would shed silent tears. Sometimes he would open that faded old book and read her a story.

They were grand stories, too. Heroic deeds by her mother and father in yesteryear. All the jumble of political intrigue and all the wonderful romance... now that she was eight years old, she could truly appreciate the yarns he would spin. At first it was strange to her, that they were told from his perspective, and yet her family had never really spoken of a man named Ernst.

The connection came to her one day as she sat on the bench near the flower garden. Her mother had planted all the blooms – they shone slightly in the summer sun, dew blazing gold with the reflection. Her father had been scolding her for shredding petals from them. Eventually he got her to sit down, and with a sullen look he said the same thing he always said. " Stocke, help me!" And then he marched off into the homestead, exasperated.

Who was this Stocke? There wasn't a person she held dear that didn't mention his name from time to time. Marco would bring him up in the lessons, all the wounds he had treated for the man. Raynie would say his name in a mumbled sigh, staring out at the distance. As she puzzled over the mystery, her teacher approached and sat beside her.

" Father is so unfair," she whispered, feeling his presence at her side. " Sometimes I wish you were my father instead!"

" Nonsense. I wouldn't let you get away with half of what you do." At this she shot a pouty frown at him, which he quickly returned. He was like that. She never could win any arguments.

" Maybe you're right," he said with a pondering tone. " He might be a bit overprotective. But he loves you. He doesn't know what to do with a daughter."

" Makes me wish I was a boy."

" I'm glad you weren't. Then I would have to train you." And that was that. He changed the subject quickly by pulling the book from his cloak. She leaned against him, eager.

" Will you tell me about that desert place this time? And how you and Raynie were meeting... you never finished that one!" He made a show of pretending to pull a disgusted face, and she swatted his shoulder. " It's so romantic! I know that you two will end up together. I guess you're probably going to ask her to marry you, and then..." She stopped, frowning. " But Aunt Raynie isn't married."

" Exactly. Stop making things up." He sighed with a tired air and began flipping through the faded pages. " No... I don't feel like that's today's story."

She wiggled slightly, making him wrap an arm around her to keep her still. " Then what _is_ today's story? Make it something about my parents, then. Something equally romantic as tortured love!"

The look in his eyes was indecipherable to her, but all the same, she felt a shudder of guilt. Before she could apologize, though, he had found his page. He quickly cleared his throat. " Once upon a time, there was a young soldier named Stocke. To everyone around him, he was mystery – a quiet, reserved figure..."

Rosa felt her body tense. It wasn't only the fact that Ernst rarely mentioned Stocke - this wasn't his usual story tone. Something was wrong with her teacher, something askew or changed. There were lines under his eyes. " However, nobody really knew him. He was more frail than they could see, more weak than they would ever understand."

" Ernst, this doesn't sound like the Stocke everyone has told me about..."

He paused, chewing on his lower lip as he thought. " This is a prequel. You must read the prequels if you're ever to understand a character fully. Anyways..."

" Stocke was a new soldier, and felt alone among all the other recruits, who had families, friends and lovers. You see, for a soldier, the only thing you value is life. Not your own life, granted – the lives of the living, those that you protect. Those that don't have to march off into war, or kill other people, or do things that they feel terrified of doing. Soldiers thrive off this – they are no longer living things, in a sense. They have put in their bets to die already." He turned the page, and she could see his fingers fumble a little. " Stocke was desperate for somebody to stand beside. He couldn't approach anyone, truly – he felt too intrusive, too obviously lonely. It was by fate itself, not by his own charisma or endearing personality, that he met another young soldier. An Alistel soldier, named Rosch... and how he loved that man, how he wished that life could be so different..."

Ernst paused again, looking up across the garden. Rosa knew him to do this often, though she could never really notice what it is he was staring at. It was in those times, though, that she had learned to place her hand across his larger, calloused one. This always seemed to bring him back to her. She didn't know what would happen if she failed to do so – it seemed as if he would simply fade away.

She held his hand and shone a smile towards him, which he slowly returned. " Where was I?"

" You were talking about Daddy."

" Oh... right. Stocke and Rosch quickly became the closest of friends. Nothing could sever the bond between them – not even Sonja, whom both men cared for tremendously. Stocke was certain that he had fallen in love, with either or both, yet... he wasn't sure how to distinguish love from any other warmth. He was uncertain of trusting this emotion, something so strong that it could lead men to join wars and die."

" But then she came. She was the most beautiful woman Stocke had ever seen, even though beauty wasn't what drew him to her. The way she held her body so casually, the way she could defend herself so easily when necessary – I suppose it was the lure of someone safe that drew him. She seemed like someone who wouldn't die easily, someone who he wouldn't have to worry about. They grew close through their journeys, and fell in love. " He looked away again, but it seemed that the distance didn't hold his attention for long – he was back to looking at the book in seconds without a gentle touch from Rosa. She was frowning deeply, the knots in her stomach twisting. Somehow, she knew what story he was telling after all.

" Then, one day in the midst of the journey, they met amongst the sands and promised that after all the fighting, sorrow and misery, they would meet again and live a peaceful life together. Unfortunately, after it all came about, he stayed away. He was too terrified of something intangible, something just beyond his reach of understanding. That was, until he met someone else. Her name was Rosa. She was the smallest, newest thing he had ever seen. As he stood beside her cradle, he began to wonder what it would be like to have his own child, to know that there was something so miraculous growing inside the one he loved most, to hold her – to wrap my arms around Raynie - and feel that I was now holding _two_... well, that made it worth wanting to come home."

It was clear now. Childhood confusion or not, Rosa understood everything in that moment. Ernst – _her_ Ernst – was this elusive Stocke. All this time, he had not been reading her stories. He had been laying his life out before her, working through things in his own time, every piece of memory and every second in his own history. Every sadness, every broken heart... as if trying to convince himself of something. But how could she not realize? After all this, could she really not know him...?

The thought sent tears trickling down her face. It was cruel of her, she knew, to listen to him for so long and so intently, but to never hear anything at all. Even after he gathered her up in an affectionate hug, she could not stop crying. " I'm sorry Ernst! I-I've let you down, haven't I...?"

His body shook in response, trembled a little with his rare tears. " No, no dear... I wanted to thank you! You know me better than most. You've been the only one who has ever really listened."

His gratitude spread through her like a blaze, and she sniffed, ceasing her crying instantly. He let her go, but still held her face in his hands, wiping away the strands of hair that had become stuck to her face. " Listen, Rosa," he whispered. " I need you to be good for your mother and father. Please be good for them."

A thrill of alarm shot through her. His tone was grim, laced with regret. She couldn't help feeling like this was going to be the last of their lessons. " But where are you going?"

" I hope... I hope this is the last time we'll have to meet like this."

As her tears started anew, there came footsteps from inside the home. He leaned forward. " It's okay, Rosa. It's okay. I'll be back someday. I promise."

And then he was gone. It was as if she had been sitting alone all along, crying to herself in the garden. When Rosch opened the door, however, she had dried her tears on her sleeves and stood, hands primly folded behind her back. But nothing escaped her father's notice. He hurried to her side and kneeled down. " What's wrong? Are you hurt?"

She shook her head. " No... I was just talking to my imaginary friend. He had to go somewhere, but I hope he'll be back."

Rosch looked down at her with sympathy. " I know what that's like." Then he took her hand and together they walked the path back to the doorway. " Honey, I know you're still a child, but aren't' you a little old to still have such friends...?"

Moments later Stocke reappeared. His hands were held In his pockets, his eyes emotionless, although he scuffed his boots across the dirt, watching them walk away with a shameful feeling of envy. It was childish, he knew. Still... what he wouldn't give for things to be different. Surely Raynie would forgive him for staying away so long. She would understand his confusion, would see that there was so much he had to work out first. Thanks to Rosa, he felt he finally _could_ return...

But so much had happened. There was guilt, certainly, for betraying their trust. All those times he could have opened up and entrusted them with everything he had been dealing with in secret... he did love them, after all. Wasn't that love, to give over your heart to those that cared about you? Or perhaps, love was bearing the burden as to not trouble anyone...

He stopped suddenly, starting down with a stunned frown. It seemed he had unknowingly been drawing a line across the dirt before him. On one side he could see Rosch through the windows, twirling Rosa through the air, cheering her. Already the girl was smiling and squealing with laughter. From another room, Sonja was calling.

On the other side he stood, feeling half a man and clutching the worn story to his chest. He felt young still, still a yearning soldier, and completely alone. There would be a time, he knew, when he regained the courage to come home. Yet perhaps not yet. When he returned, there would be no room for his fears, and certainly no room for him to doubt his own ability to love.


End file.
